


We All Have Our Ghosts

by josiechambers3



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: (i live for pessimistic narrator Connor), (like really depressing), Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Connor is alive and Evan is dead, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Barista AU, Barista Connor Murphy, Ghost Evan Hansen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jared and the others come in later i promise, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Pessimistic Narrator Connor, Suicide Attempt, ghost au, kinda depressing really, major character death tag is for Evan (even though he's already dead in the beginning)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 16:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11901498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josiechambers3/pseuds/josiechambers3
Summary: Connor Murphy just so happens to have an actual one.*In which Connor Murphy is the new barista working at a local coffee shop, and Evan Hansen is the new ghost haunting it.





	We All Have Our Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! It’s great to meet you, new readers, and old ones, welcome back! :)
> 
> So, this fic is gonna be...interesting, that’s for sure. It’s either gonna be a train wreck or a total success, really, no in-between.
> 
> As you can tell, it’s a barista AU with a very big twist. (Which, I know you’ve seen a lot of, but as an actual barista, I totally have a right to write one.) So I thought, I’ve seen the ghost fics, and I’ve seen the barista AUs, but I’ve never seen both combined (for better...or for worse...). So I’m giving this a shot. What the heck. Let’s see where this takes us.
> 
> Enjoy!

Connor Murphy’s life is going nowhere.

Here he is at twenty-one, in all of his college dropout glory, washed up and with barely a penny to his name (hell, he doesn’t even have enough money for weed anymore, so he’s being forced into a dry spell, the banana on top of the shitty sundae that is his life). He’s back in his hometown (the one he’s tried so hard to leave behind), forced to live with his parents again, even working at a small mom and pop coffee shop, to top it all off with a nice, lovely dose of heavy stereotype.

(Honestly, Connor muses, the only good things in his life right about now are no monthly rent or utility payments and free caffeine.)

In short, Connor Murphy is a failure at life (at least, according to the disapproving stares of his parents and the silence of his sister).

At least he works the closing shift at the coffee shop, Connor thinks to himself as he glances up at the ghost town-like shop. He looks back down and idly scrolls around on YouTube.

Yeah, it’s annoying as shit to get home at one in the morning, he supposes, but on the slightly brighter side, usually there are practically no customers from nine to midnight, and no witnesses to see him binge on all of the pastries that he’s technically supposed to throw out at the end of the night.

In all honesty, Connor thanks the god he never believed in that he gets to work the closing shift. Not only does it mean sleeping in (and an actual excuse for sleeping in for once, rather than just living up to the lazy ass his parents are convinced he is), working seven PM to close, which is at midnight, means minimal human interaction. Which is definitely something he’s glad about (and something the owners of the shop are no doubt glad about as well, given the incident last week involving that prissy fat old lady, a wrongly-made caramel macchiato, and a box of coffee beans).

Connor briefly glances up from his phone, where he’s been playing a half-hearted game of Flappy Bird (and why the hell do people find that game interesting, he wonders). Nobody is in the coffee shop other than him, as expected. He goes back to looking at his phone, which is propped up on the register, where it would be hidden away from any customer’s view (not that there were any). Then he sighs and turns to the sink. Maybe he should actually do a little work. After all, he is being paid to do this (not that he’s being paid much).

He puts the plug in the drain, turns on the faucet, pours in a large dollop of soap, and lets the sink start to fill with warm, soapy water for him to do the dishes with later.

Having done that, Connor reaches over and grabs his phone off of the register. He holds it in his hands and taps around, opening up YouTube and lazily beginning to surf around, looking at scream-o and other goth music videos (and the occasional cat video, but nobody needs to know that).

The clock reads eleven o’clock.

\---

Connor doesn’t look up for thirty minutes (except to stop the faucet when he nearly floods the sink).

Eventually, though, he does.

Connor finally gets bored with looking around the emo side of YouTube (honestly, he doesn’t even like the emo side of YouTube. he only goes on it because he figures that’s what he should go on as a Stereotypical Basket Case Depressed Kid). He glances up at the clock once more. It’s eleven-thirty.

Connor sighs and, with a small grunt, pushes off of the sink he’s been leaning against. He might as well start closing up shop; no way in hell will anyone be coming in for a caffeine fix in the next thirty minutes.

Of course, he is immediately proven wrong.

The bell attached to the door to the coffee shop jingles as the door opens and admits a distraught-looking blonde woman into the coffee shop, an equally distressed guy in glasses and about Connor’s age not far behind her.

The two of them practically stagger into the coffee shop, as if they have survived some sort of apocalypse-type scenario, and as if the coffee shop is some sort of safe haven. The guy gently takes the woman’s arm and helps her stumble over to a table in the corner. He pulls out a chair for her and helps her sit, then they converse in low voices.

Connor masks that he is staring at them by pulling out a sanitary wipe and pretending to be fully invested in wiping down the espresso machine, but in all honesty, he’s openly gaping at them from behind the machinery. Who the fuck comes into a coffee shop at midnight looking like they just witnessed a murder?

Connor’s nonexistent sixth sense detects an interesting story behind the whole thing. Just the thing he needs to spice up another mediocre day in another mediocre week in another mediocre month in another mediocre year in another mediocre life.

The two finish their brief conversation, and the guy that’s Connor’s age straightens up and walks over to the counter. The blonde woman drops her head in her hands on the table.

Connor tosses the wipe in the trash and goes up to the register, putting on his “hello-I’ve-been-brainwashed-by-society-and-the-food-service-industry-to-actually-pretend-to-be-nice” face. “Hey, welcome to the Screamin’ Beans,” (and why the hell the coffee shop is named what it is, Connor has no idea) “what can I get for you?” he greets the blond, bespectacled guy.

The guy’s voice is cracked and croaky when he speaks, almost like he’s been crying or something. “D...do you have any decaf hot teas?”

Connor nods, his expression a perfected one of blandness and blankness. “We have a decaf green tea and a decaf passion tea.”

The guy nods numbly. “I’ll...I’ll take a medium-sized passion tea, a large hot chocolate, and a medium black iced coffee, please.” The guy freezes suddenly, seeming to get choked up. “U-um, never mind. Not the iced coffee,” he chokes out. “J-just the other two drinks.”

Huh. Intriguing.

“Can I get names for the cups?” Not that Connor really needs them. It’s obvious that they’re the only two customers in the shop. He’s just curious and, as a college dropout working as a barista, has absolutely nothing better to do with his life.

“Heidi and Jared,” the guy responds quietly.

Connor nods again, writing the information down on the cups. “Will that be all for you today?” Dammit, why did he say today? It’s almost freaking midnight. This is why he hates human interaction. Well, part of the reason why, at least.

A shadow crosses the guy’s face. “...Yeah.”

Logging on to the register, Connor puts in their order and totals it up. “That’ll be six dollars and fifty cents.”

Nodding again, the guy pulls out his wallet with a shaking hand, extracting a five and two ones with trembling fingers. He holds out the money to Connor, who pretends he doesn’t see just how badly the guy is shaking.

Connor rings up the transaction, counts out the change, and hands it to the guy alongside his receipt. “I’ll have those out for you in a minute.”

Connor busily goes about steaming the milk for the hot chocolate, then preps the tea and gets hot water pouring into the cup just in time for the milk to stop steaming. He pumps the mocha sauce into the cup, taking pity on this “Jared” guy and giving him an extra pump of the chocolate. Looks like he needs it.

Connor puts a lid on both of the drinks and puts them out on the counter. “Here you go,” he calls to the Jared guy.

The blond takes the two cups and heads back to the table where the woman is, still with her head down on the table. He gently places a hand on her back. The woman slowly sits up, accepting the tea with a numbly grateful look on her face that soon fades to nothingness and despair once more. Jared sits across from the woman, and they drink their drinks in silence.

Connor continues to wipe down things, grabbing another sanitizer wipe and starting to clean the front counter as he watches the pair. He almost feels sorry for the two, even though they’re disrupting what is usually his “pastry-sampling” time. And that’s saying something, because Connor is not the type to feel sorry for someone else. Especially when they’re disrupting his “pastry-sampling” time.

Connor glances down at the counter to scrub at a particularly stubborn syrup stain, and when he looks up at the pair again, he does a double take.

The pair is no longer a pair.

There’s another boy standing behind the woman.

When did that kid come in? Connor hasn’t heard the bell ring since those two came in.

Neither the glasses guy nor the older woman seem to notice the boy, and Connor wonders for a moment if he needs to warn the two, wonders if he’s about to witness a robbery or a shooting or something (although he hopes not; for once, he’s not particularly in the mood to die today).

But then something strange happens.

The boy puts a hesitant hand on the blonde woman’s shoulder. That’s not the strange thing, though.

Even with his hand on her shoulder, the woman doesn’t even notice the boy. Doesn’t even blink, or wince, or acknowledge him in the slightest.

What?

The Jared guy looks up at the clock. It almost looks as if he’s looking right through the boy.

The boy murmurs something quietly to the two of them, but neither appear to hear him.

Connor wonders briefly if he’s going crazy and seeing things—or, more accurately, people. Maybe the pharmacy gave him the wrong prescription? Maybe all the pot he smoked in high school is finally getting to him? Or maybe Jared and the woman are purposefully ignoring the other guy.

“We should go,” Connor hears Jared say to the woman, who nods dully.

He helps the woman up, and they walk over to the door of the coffee shop, arm in arm, clutching onto each other as if their entire world depends on it.

The bell tinkles with false cheeriness as the two walk out into the black winter night.

Connor stares after them, then curses. Dammit, he forgot to tell them to have a good night. He pauses, then curses again quietly. Dammit, working in the food service industry is getting to him.

Looking away from the now-shut door, he notices that it’s a quarter to twelve.

Then he takes note of the boy, still standing there, one arm half-raised after the pair, as if trying to stop them or make them come back. His face wears a look of stunned confusion. Then, he slowly looks away from the door, looking down at his own hand instead.

Connor uses the boy’s distraction and takes a moment to examine him.

The kid has blond hair, but that’s all Connor can make out of his facial features from so far away. He looks young, but he’s probably about Connor’s age. His shirt is striped and blue, but other than that, his clothing is nondescript.

The oddest thing about him (other than the fact that he’s in a coffee shop at almost midnight) is that he almost looks kind of...blurry, maybe? No. That’s not quite the word for it. Faded? Nope, that’s not really it, either.

Connor frowns in concentration, staring harder at the boy, his pretense of wiping down the counter completely forgotten.

Suddenly, the boy turns and stares straight at him with wide gray eyes.

Chagrined at being caught staring at the boy, Connor colors slightly and looks away and back down at the counter, beginning to wipe at the counter once more. After a moment, he chances looking at the kid again.

The boy is still staring at him.

“You...you can...see me?” the boy half-whispers.

“I—what?” Connor frowns, confused. “Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I be able to....” His voice trails off as the boy turns to face him completely.

It hits him all at once.

See-through.

The adjective he’s been looking for.

Fuck, the kid is freaking see-through.

Connor freezes where he is. The sanitizer wipe drops out of his now-limp hand and flutters to the ground, forgotten. “Wh—what,” he stammers. “I can...see you.” His tone is disbelieving. “I can see through you. I—what the fuck?”

He starts out from behind the counter, walking towards the boy in an almost trance-like state, completely confused and not really sure what’s even going on right now.

The boy starts and squeaks with surprise as Connor walks toward him. Terrified, he jumps up and...floats. Up. Into the ceiling. Jesus Christ, see-through and he floats.

And then he’s gone.

And then Connor is left standing in the middle of a coffee shop, at midnight, very much alone and very much confused.

What the hell was that? he wonders, trying to comprehend what just happened. Was the kid even real? Was he maybe a figment of Connor’s imagination? Is he finally turning into the psychotic that his father has long since accused him of being?

Or....

Connor almost doesn’t want to think what it could really be, what the kid could really be. It’s not supposed to be real, not supposed to be possible. But....

Was the kid a ghost?

“Why not,” Connor mutters resignedly. His life is already fucked up enough as it is; hell, he is already fucked up enough as it is. Why not add some ghost or phantom or something to the mess. Sure. What the hell.

(And it’s better to think that the kid was a ghost than to think he’s going crazy. The only thing he has left in this screwed-up world that he can actually trust is his mind, and he doesn’t need to start questioning that again, too.)

Finally, after a few minutes of standing rooted to the floor in shocked silence, Connor manages to will his stunned body back into motion.

At least it’s definitely not a mediocre day (or, well, night) anymore, that’s for sure, Connor thinks as he heads back behind the counter. Two crazy people (not including himself) and possibly a ghost. His night has transformed from utterly unremarkable to utterly unforgettable in the span of—he looks at the clock—an hour. Less, actually.

“And now the coffee shop is haunted.” Connor sighs, wondering why he even took this job, anyway. Why not a job at a perfectly normal, completely un-haunted video game store or a Chick-fil-A or some chain or something? “This job doesn’t pay enough to deal with a haunted coffee shop on top of crazy old ladies,” Connor huffs to himself as he walks over to the sink to start washing dishes.

Connor glances up at the clock a final time. Midnight. Closing time. (He hates himself even more than he already does when that damn song runs through his head. Closing time....)

He goes to bury his arms to the elbows in soapy water and in reality.

Connor Murphy’s life is still going nowhere, he figures, but hell, it’s just gotten a lot more interesting.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that was enjoyable. I know it was kind of a slow chapter, but I promise it’ll pick up once we really get into the story. I just really wanted to focus on establishing Connor as a narrator and meeting Ghost!Evan for this chapter. Next chapter picks up a little more, I promise.
> 
> I will also try to make author’s notes few and far in between as we get into the story, but since this is the first chapter, I could really use some feedback. Do you like the concept? Is it manageable? Is the writing itself manageable? Especially, is there anything I could do to make Connor more in-character? I’m purposefully writing him like this to a degree, because in this he has a therapist and meds, and because I feel like if Connor had lived in Dear Evan Hansen, he probably would have mellowed out to a degree after high school and college. But is there anything I could do to make it more him? (Also, should I tone down the swearing? I feel like Connor Murphy would definitely swear, but as I’m not much of a swearing person, I don’t really know if this is too much or too little....)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this first chapter! Please feel free to kudo, comment, and stay tuned for the next chapter!


End file.
